


Secret Diary of a Broadchurch Christmas

by on_the_drift, onthedriftinthetardis (on_the_drift)



Category: Broadchurch, Secret Diary of a Call Girl (TV)
Genre: Christmas Eve, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Highland Cows, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 04:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_the_drift/pseuds/on_the_drift, https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_the_drift/pseuds/onthedriftinthetardis
Summary: When Hannah Baxter's Christmas Eve plans go horribly pear-shaped, will the grumpy Scottish cop who appears in her path come to her rescue?* And when he needs her, will she come to his?**





	Secret Diary of a Broadchurch Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fadewithfury (foxmoon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxmoon/gifts).



> This work is an extremely belated Christmas gift for the extraordinary fadewithfury, whose talent has inspired me, and who is as lovely a person as you could ever wish to meet. Er ... Merry Christmas, foxy!
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful chiaroscuroverse and the exceptional LostinFic for beta reading! They both suffered through two drafts of this story, and their input was invaluable in making it better. As usual, I've made last-minute changes, so any errors are mine alone.

It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve; presents were being wrapped, carolers were going door to door, the stockings were hung by the chimney with care, and I was on my way to an orgy. Not just any orgy, or I wouldn't have agreed to travel so far from London — it was a very exclusive Roman-themed one in a restored castle near Dorchester, and I'd been requested by the Lord of the Manor for the night. I was being paid such an insane sum of money that I could afford to take a cab all the way there and back, and not miss the funds.

Traffic on the M3 was nearly at a standstill, so the driver exited onto a side road that led to increasingly narrow country roads bordered with stone walls.

And then there were cows.

A seemingly endless herd of Highland cows appeared in the middle of the road, apparently crossing to a pasture on the other side. They saw the cab, and stopped to stare, then started milling around. There was no sign of a drover, but I could hear a dog barking in the distance.

“Isn't there anything you can do?” I asked the cabbie.

“Sorry, luv, the cows have the right of way,” he said, with all the concern of a man whose meter was running.

I checked my mobile, but there were no new messages. I looked out the window at the scenery, which I might have found quite pretty another time; perhaps on the television in my London flat, relaxing with a glass of wine in hand. Today, in the actual countryside, being delayed by bovine obstacles was unacceptable. I tapped my fingers on the seat. I checked my mobile again; still 3:44pm.

“Well we can't just wait around all day for them to move!” I griped.

The cabbie simply shrugged, and that's when I lost it.

“We'll see about that!” I said as I got out of the cab and slammed the door.

I turned, and a huge, hairy face looked up at me from an uncomfortably near distance. I recoiled against the cab door for a moment, but quickly recovered my nerve, and stepped forward unsteadily, high heels sinking into the hard-packed earth.

“Shoo!” I insisted to the nearest cow, gesturing emphatically towards the paddock. She didn't move an inch. I shivered from the cold, dressed as I was in only a light toga, but also from the realization that 600 pounds of Highland cow wasn't going to be intimidated by the same things that intimidated my neighbor’s 6-pound Chihuahua. The cow just stood there, staring at me in a way I very much didn't like.

Suddenly, I had an inspired thought: I had resources. I reached into my bag and triumphantly pulled out a black riding crop. The cabbie powered the taxi window down behind me.

“I wouldn't do that, luv,” he said.

Annoyed at the driver for failing to recognize the brilliance of my new plan, I stepped forward and poked experimentally at the rear end of the cow next to the one that was staring at me. I didn't even see her move, just felt a shock of pain in my lower left leg: the bloody cow had kicked me in the shin.

I cried out and dropped the riding crop to grab my wounded leg, and nearly fell over as I teetered on one very high heel. I hopped involuntarily on that one good leg, and my foot slid ungracefully out of the shoe as my ankle twisted. I doubled over in pain and tears streamed down my cheeks despite my best efforts, and I spared an instant of gratitude for whoever invented waterproof mascara.

Just then, a car pulled up on the other side of the herd and idled for a long moment before the engine noise ceased, and the door opened. Now that the leg that the demon cow had kicked was my good leg, I stood unsteadily on that one, trying to stand fully upright to see who had gotten out.

A tall, thin man wearing a suit and a black trenchcoat, and sporting at least two days of stubble, shut the car door and walked carefully to the edge of the herd. His car, clothes, and demeanor all screamed “plainclothes cop.”

He saw the black London cab, then me in my toga, fancy hairstyle, and evening makeup and stared open-mouthed for a moment, as if he'd seen an apparition, but then he scowled as if I'd just ruined the only nice day he'd had all year. So, not just a cop, but a grumpy cop.

“Oh, it's my lucky day,” I said under my breath to the closest cow.

I stood there and stared at the road ahead, keeping one eye on the cop and the other on the cows, as a light snow began to fall.

I turned around and watched with amazement as the suited cop whistled and clucked at the cows, gesturing towards the field they had originally been headed for, and my eyes widened as the herd began to move towards the paddock. One especially large cow started munching on a clump of grass, blocking the gateway. The man yelled, “Go on! Go on, then!” and whistled at the inconsiderate cow, and lo and behold, she moved on through the gate.

One of the few remaining cows was a large bull who seemed transfixed by the whistling policeman, staring at him intently. He advanced towards him, head and horns lowered, and I didn't need to know anything about cattle to know that the policeman was in trouble.

“Look out!” I shouted at him, and three things happened simultaneously — the bull raised his head to look in my direction, the cop looked at me, and the cabbie, leaning forward to get a better look at the bull, accidentally hit his horn. The bull startled at this new threat, and I was close enough to see the cabbie jump in his seat and hear him curse a blue streak as the bull turned to face the black cab.

The cab slipped into reverse and slowly crept backwards down the lane, but this turned out to be a mistake, as the bull began to follow. The cop yelled at the cabbie to stop, but either the cabbie didn't hear him or chose to ignore him, and the cab actually lurched backwards. I held my breath.

In the next moment, half a ton of Highland bull crouched back, lowered his long horns, and pawed the ground before hurtling himself towards the cab as if shot from a cannon. The cop yelled invectives at the bull and ran after the beast as he continued to charge the cab. I watched in disbelief as the bull reached the cab, bunched his shoulders, and thrust his horns through the front grill and into the radiator. Steam billowed from the punctures, and the bull tried to withdraw in a panic. There was a great creaking and clattering of horns against metal, and the bull was free again. He retreated hurriedly, wide-eyed and chastened.

The cop held up his hands and called softly to the enormous animal. The bull perked up his ears and tentatively stepped towards him. In the next two minutes, the cop coaxed the bull back into the herd, and the herd into the paddock.

When the last cow trotted through the opening, the man closed the gate behind them and watched them kick up their heels and run in the falling snow, happy to be free in the field. He smiled, looking satisfied, and it struck me then that he was really quite handsome. But then he turned to me, his expression serious once again.

“Who are you, then, the cow whisperer?” I said, half teasing and half amazed, as he helped me over the few feet to the gate. I leaned against the cold metal gratefully.

“I’m… I'll be right back,” he said.

He turned and walked towards the cab, which was billowing steam from the grill and under the bonnet. The cabbie had gotten out of the car to look over the damage, and was shaking his head in disbelief.

The cop flashed his badge, then pulled a worn notebook and pen out of his coat pocket and opened the notebook to a blank page. He looked at the cabbie, clicked his biro on the page, and quickly took his name, address, phone and license numbers.

“I could cite you for honking your horn while stationary, and not obeying orders, Mr. Wilson, but I'm going to let you off with a caution,” he said. “Do you need a ride, or can you contact someone to come get you?”

Mr. Wilson took his mobile out of his pocket and waved it in the air. “I'll call the dispatch and have a lorry come collect me. And me cab,” he added, wincing as he looked at the misshapen grill.

The policeman nodded and snapped his notebook closed, then turned around and strode towards me.

“What's your name?” he said, opening his notebook again.

So much for small talk. “Belle,” I said without thinking.

He raised his left eyebrow at that, and stared at me, apparently willing to wait all night for a more convincing response. I shivered in the cold twilight air, hugging myself in a futile attempt to conserve some heat, and tried to shake the snow off of my head.

Grumpy cop blinked a few times, and then, incredibly, took off his coat and awkwardly slipped it around my shoulders. I pulled it close, absorbing the lingering heat from his body, and gave him an evaluative look. He was avoiding looking at me now, and cleared his throat.

“I know it's not very warm, but I thought it would be better than nothing,” he said apologetically.

I'd found the last chivalrous cop in Britain. “No, it's lovely!’ I rushed to assure him.”I'm much warmer now. Thank you.”

“Right, good.” He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet. He was shy. And something about him made me trust him.

“Hannah. Hannah Baxter.”

He nodded at this, seemingly satisfied he'd got the right answer, and carefully wrote it down in his report book.

“Phone number?”

A quip died on my lips, and I gave him my number. Hannah's number.

“Address?” I gave him my address in London, and he scribbled it down. “You're a long way from home, Miss Baxter. What brings you here on this Christmas Eve?’

“Fancy dress party,” I said, giving my standard answer unthinkingly.

“Really,” he said in a flat tone. So that wasn't going to fly.

“Fine. I was heading to a job. A sex party, in fact.”

Both eyebrows went up this time, but he wrote this down in his book.

“And where was this… er… party happening?” he said, seemingly flustered. I tried to detect a blush, but it was too dark.

“Can't say. Client confidentiality.”

He narrowed his eyes at that, wrote something else down in his book, put it away in his suit pocket with the pen, and finally, looked up at me.

“Right. Let's get you settled in the car, and I'll give you a lift to the hospital.”

“Could I know your name?”

“I'm Detective Hardy,” he said automatically.

“No first name?” I asked.

There was a pause while he rubbed the back of his neck, but his name appeared not to be forthcoming.

“Right then, Detective, where exactly are you taking me?”

“Dorset County Hospital. It's the nearest medical facility that's open tonight. You need to have those injuries looked at,” he said, nodding towards my legs, which already had a hoof-shaped bruise showing.  His eyes lingered for just a moment, then he took a deep breath and looked up and out at the fields, slowly falling asleep under their gossamer blanket of snow.

“Oh, right. Thanks,” I said.

“Can you walk?”

“I'll try,” I said unsteadily, and took a step forward. My ankle collapsed, and I started to fall, but Detective Hardy moved forward and caught me, and to my surprise and delight, lifted me into his arms. He was stronger than he looked. I put my arms around his neck and he carried me over to his car, setting me down on the ground by the front door. He opened the door and helped me get settled inside. I smiled at him. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “Watch the coat,” he said, and when I'd pulled it around me, he shut the door and walked around to the back of the car.

He opened the boot, and I could hear him rummaging around for something, then he closed it with a thunk. He came around to the driver's side, opened the door, and handed me a wool blanket as he settled in his seat. Gratefully, I wrapped the blanket around my legs.

“There should be a bottle of paracetamol in there,” he said, nodding towards the glove box as he shut the car door. I found the bottle and took two out, and replaced it in the glove box.

“Er… You can take those with my coffee, or what's left of it,” he said, starting the engine.

He'd surprised me again. I swallowed the pills and washed them down with a swig from his thermal mug. Station house coffee: it was strong and bitter, but still warm, and I took another swig before setting it back in the cup holder.

He turned the headlamps on, illuminating the mangled Hackney cab, and put the car in reverse. He began speedily backing up the narrow lane. He'd only gone about a quarter of a kilometer before he was able to turn around in the driveway for a farm, and go back the way he'd come.

Meanwhile, I'd placed a quick, apologetic call to my client, explaining my circumstances, and excusing myself from the event. I told him that all of his money would be refunded. He wasn't happy, but there was nothing more I could do about it.

Despite the snow falling now in large, fluffy clumps, Detective Hardy was driving quite fast — as if it were clear daytime. The route was obviously familiar.

I watched the scenery fly by for a minute before turning my attention to my self-appointed chauffeur. His profile nearly disappeared into the shadows on the other side of the car, but I filled in the details from when I'd seen him in the light: messy brown hair that looked like it had originally been shaped by a good haircut, but had recently been trimmed by an elderly barber with tremors; wonky right ear; two days’ worth of beard scruff; amber brown eyes that had clearly seen too much, set in a face that seemed haggard yet unbowed. The whole effect was strikingly handsome. I felt my face warm and my breath quicken, and couldn't suppress a shiver just as he looked at me.

“The heat should come on any minute,” he said, sounding apologetic.

“Yes, I feel warmer already,” I said, fanning myself ineffectually with one hand. He looked askance at me, clearly puzzled. I went on hurriedly, “Um, I was just wondering how long it will be before we're there. My ankle hurts quite a bit.”

A sympathetic look briefly crossed his face, and he gentled his driving, which actually did help my ankle. But now we were going considerably slower.

“Er…,” he said, apparently recalculating the time to the hospital based on our reduced speed. “About an hour. Possibly more if this snow gets any worse.”

As soon as he'd said it, the flurries seemed to intensify, swirling around the car like some mad magician conducting a symphony out of snow.

His jaw dropped, just a little, and he looked gloomily through the windscreen at what was now a proper snowstorm.

“It's all right, um….”

“Hardy,” he said automatically.

I rolled my eyes. He caught me at it, and up went his eyebrow over a scowl.

I bit my lip and shrugged. “Well, it is customary when someone leads you like that to reply with your given name. Besides, we're stuck with each other for at least an hour. I can't just keep calling you  ‘Detective’.”

He sighed and drove in silence for so long I was afraid he might not say another word for the duration. I leaned back in my seat heavily, hoping the heat would at least begin to circulate soon.

He cleared his throat. “Alec,” he said slowly, as if it were something foreign and unfamiliar. At my grin he quickly added, “But I'm not fond of it. Never have been.”

“Not a smart Alec, then?” I teased.

He stared at me in surprise for a moment, then smirked and shook his head. “Nah. I'll leave that role to you.”

I laughed, and he looked pleased with himself.

“Seriously, though; no middle name?”

“Er…”

“Go on, you can tell me.”

“Ness,” he grimaced.” Alec Ness Hardy. I mean, what were they thinking?”

“A Loch Ness Hardy? Oh my God, that's terrible!” I chortled.

“I've heard all the jokes, I promise,” he sighed, and muttered something.

“I'm sorry?”

“What's your middle name, then?” he challenged.

I shut my mouth abruptly and looked out the car window, suddenly fascinated by the dim view.

“Come on,” he coaxed, “it can't be worse than mine!”

“Oh all right,” I grudgingly agreed.

“Well?”

“Victoria.”

“Oh no,” he laughed. “After Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, I presume?”

“Mum did always fancy the royals,” I sighed.

“Well, I think Hannah suits you. A bonnie name for a bonnie lass.”

“Really….” I smiled at him, unreasonably happy.

He gave me the side-eye, but underneath was an almost undetectable smile. “Anyway, you can call me Hardy. Everyone does.”

“All right.”

***

“Can you pick up any radio stations here?” I asked.

“Yes, but I don't listen to music in the car. Might miss something,” he explained, nodding toward the police scanner.

“Ah. So what kind of music do you listen to when you're not in a police car?”

He raised his eyebrows and blew out a puff of air. “A bit of this and that. Some jazz and blues, and rock, I suppose.”

“You know, music did continue to evolve after the 1970s,” I teased.

“You wouldn't know it to listen to the music my daughter does,” he chuckled.

“Oh — you're married?” My smile faltered a bit. My imaginary relationship with Hardy had gone somewhat more smoothly than this in my head. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring; I’d have noticed.

“I… What? No! Divorced,” he said, as if the very idea of marriage was distasteful to him.

“Oh,” I said, and I might have smirked just a bit. “How old is your daughter?”

“Nineteen. And off in the south of Italy with some mates from University for the holidays,” he said gruffly. But there was emotion behind the roughness.

“First time she's been away at Christmas?” I enquired gently.

He was quiet for such a long time that I thought he wasn't going to answer, but then he shook his head. “No. But it's the first time she's been so far away at Christmas.”

I nodded. “I'm sorry, that must be tough,” I said, briefly touching his shoulder in sympathy. He startled at the touch, and my heart clenched — he clearly wasn't used to friendly physical contact.

“Aye, well… She’s got to get out in the world on her own sooner or later, hasn't she.”

“Yeah. Doesn't really make it easier on you to know that though, does it?”

“Not really, no,” he acknowledged.

“Well, maybe you could ring her to wish her a Happy Christmas?”

“I'm sure the last thing she wants is a phone call from her old man,” he said uncertainly.

“If it were me, I'd love to hear from you.”

“Really?

“Absolutely. It's Christmas Eve; I'm sure she'd love a phone call from her dad,” I prodded. He looked at me, then ahead at the road, before pulling the car over.

He took his mobile out of his pocket and looked at me again.

“Would you mind if I placed a quick call to her?”

“‘course not,” I encouraged him with a smile. He smiled back at me and my stomach flipped.

He placed the call and waited, and I heard it ringing several times before a young woman's voice answered. I couldn't hear what she said, but she sounded pleased, and I gave a small sigh of relief.

“Daisy! Happy Christmas Eve!” he said, practically glowing with delight. He so obviously loved his daughter that I went misty-eyed and had to turn away.

I heard his half of the conversation; a charming mixture of Christmas cheer, inquiries about what the south of Italy was like, and parental warnings about Italian men, drinking too much wine, and pickpockets. I sat quietly, but eventually I had to shift my legs out of discomfort. Hardy looked at me as if surprised I was there. He held up his finger and mouthed, “One moment.”

“I have to go, darling,” he said. “Merry Christmas! Love you!”

He listened to her reply, then disconnected the call and looked at me apologetically.

“I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to talk to her for that long.”

“It's ok. I'm glad you got to chat with her. She obviously means the world to you.”

“Aye, she does. Thank you,” he said. He put the car in gear and pulled back on the road, and began again driving cautiously through the storm.

***

The snow flew thicker and faster. He slowed down even further, until we seemed to be going at the speed of one of the cows that had blocked my path earlier. He frowned in concentration.

“Can we get through? I asked.

“Oh, aye, not to worry. Anyhow, we're nearly there.”

As he said that, we drove around a bend, and the lights of the city came into view. After that, it took less than a quarter of an hour to drive to the hospital. He pulled into the drive for A&E and parked the car in front of the door. He picked up his police radio and let the dispatcher know that he was going to keep his unmarked car to drive home, due to the storm. He got out and came round to my side as I struggled to stand up.

“Hey, stop that,” he grumbled. “You're in no state to walk.” And he leaned down to pick me up. I could smell his cologne - notes of sandalwood, amber, geranium….Eternity for men. Unexpected, but pleasing. I tried to remember to breathe as he carried me into the waiting room, at the same time enjoying the few moments of being held by him.

He gently set me down in front of the check-in desk, and stood next to me while I explained to the attendant what had happened.

We were told that it might be a few hours’ time, and to wait in chairs, Hardy helped me to the nearest one.

I wanted more time with this man, and was running through all of the dreadful pick-up lines I'd ever heard, trying to think of one that might make him want to stay. But I couldn't think; my mind was fuzzy with pain and cold and distracted by my attraction to him.

But he sat next to me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. We chatted about hospitals and terrible wait times, the national health system, drifted into politics and found out our views were surprisingly similar. Then we got onto books, and discovered a shared love of Agatha Christie and (interestingly) Sarah Waters, and I confessed that I'd written two books, which impressed Hardy no end. In fine British fashion, we wound up talking about the weather.

Finally, after nine o'clock at night, a nurse appeared with a wheelchair, and said they'd assigned me an exam room, and I stood up with Hardy's help. But then the nurse said something that made my head snap up.

“You'll have to wait here, sir, only family is allowed to stay with patients in exam rooms.”

“I don't want to be left alone,” I said, looking towards Hardy in a panic. He looked surprised for a moment, but then he cleared his throat and looked back at the nurse, and I thought, this is it, I'll never see him again.

“I'm her bloke,” he said, and put his arm gently but firmly around my waist, supporting me. Which was lucky, because all of the oxygen seemed to have disappeared from the room.

“Is that so?” said the nurse, skeptically looking in my direction.

I nodded decisively, and grinned at him. “Yes. He's my bloke.”

The nurse shrugged, as if to say, “we get all kinds here,” but all she actually said was, “Right, follow me,” and led us towards the exam room. Hardy didn't even ask, he just carefully got me seated in the wheelchair and followed the nurse quickly through the warren of corridors, all looking equally institutional and cold.

In the room, he picked me up and set me down on the examination table, then stood awkwardly next to me. The nurse brushed past him, and quickly took my temperature, pulse, and blood pressure.

“Hmm; 90 beats per minute. Is your pulse always this high?” asked the nurse. “Your blood pressure is a bit high as well.”

“Um, no… I don't think so,” I replied. They were usually remarkably good. But having Hardy so close was having a dramatic affect on my vitals. I did the only thing I could think of at that point — I took his hand, threading our fingers together. He turned to stare at me, startled. And then he looked away, almost shyly, and squeezed my hand back.

“The doctor will be with you in just a moment,” said the nurse, slipping out the door, closing it behind her.

Hardy tried to let go of my hand, but I held on to him more tightly.

“Thanks for staying with me.”

“Aye, well… I've been in hospital alone once. It's much easier to bear with a friend there.”

I nodded. “Are we friends, then?” I asked, stroking his thumb with mine. I held my breath for his answer.

He shuddered subtly and closed his eyes briefly. When they fluttered open, they were dark with promise. “I think… perhaps we could be.” He turned towards me and glanced down at my lips. Just then, the door opened.

The doctor with the worst timing in the history of the world came in and grinned at me in what I'm sure he thought was a winning fashion.

“Off to a fancy dress party, were we?”

I somehow managed a strained smile in return. “That's right.”

He peered at my leg and gently tried to manipulate my ankle, but I cried out in pain, and wasn't able to stop the tears from running down my face.

“I'm sorry, but it looks like you'll have to miss this one. Your ankle may be broken, and you've got a nasty bruise on your shin. With an imprint of a hoof. No need to ask what happened, eh?” he said. I just nodded, thankful not to have to make explanations. “We'll need to get an X-ray to make sure you don't have a hairline fracture.”

This time we had to wait for a gurney. An aide from patient transport wheeled it into the room and he and Hardy got me settled in it. The aide took me to the Radiation department, where they X-rayed my ankle, and then back to the exam room to wait for the doctor to evaluate the films. Hardy helped the man slide me back over to the exam table. And again, I took the detective's hand, and gave it a squeeze. And then we waited, talking quietly. It didn't take long.

“Good news!” the doctor announced cheerily, ”It's just sprained. The nurse will be back in a tick with a bandage to wrap your ankle. The main things are to rest, ice it for 15-20 minutes every couple of hours while you're awake, keep it bandaged, and keep it elevated above the level of your heart. R.I.C.E., you see?”

I nodded. He wished us a Merry Christmas and excused himself to see another patient. In a minute, the nurse came in with an elastic bandage and wrapped my ankle with it. Hardy held my hand the whole time. He cleared his throat.

“You won't be able to get home tonight, I'm afraid — the roads are becoming impassable. While you were off getting your X-ray I took the liberty of calling around to all the hotels and motels in the area that are open Christmas Eve. I'm sorry, but they were all booked.”

“What am I going to do?” I worried aloud. “I can't stay here.”

“Well, I was just thinking …. You could maybe come back to my place?” I looked up at him, and he cleared his throat. He was definitely blushing. “I've a second bedroom — it's my daughter's, but she's away, as you know — you're welcome to take it,” he offered hurriedly

“Oooh, aren't you the lucky one!” the nurse exclaimed. “Handsome and a gentleman!” Hardy blushed harder.

I nodded slowly, trying not to seem overeager. “Thank you, that would be lovely.”

The nurse went to fetch my discharge papers.

“Are you sure you don't mind? I don't want to impose,” I said, and bit my lip, anxious that he might change his mind. The nurse came back with the papers and a wheelchair, and stood in the doorway, looking between us.

“No! I don't mind a bit. I enjoy your company,” he said. And besides, it's Christmas Eve,” he added gruffly.

I smiled widely at him, and exchanged glances with the nurse. He wasn't fooling anyone.

The nurse smiled at him as Hardy helped me into the contraption. He wheeled me down the institutional white hallways and paused at the checkout desk, and when he showed them my discharge papers, the attendant waved us through at two minutes to midnight.

He wheeled me out to his car, settled me into the passenger seat again, and tucked the woolen blanket around me.

“Hardy?” I started, and he looked at me, not a foot away.

“I think you can call me Alec.”

I reached out and brushed my thumb over his scruffy cheek. His pupils were blown wide, and his warm breath came quickly, the visible moisture billowing and dissipating into the night.

“Hann…,” he started to whisper, and I ran my fingers around to the back of his neck and pulled his head down. His lips came crashing down on mine, kissing me with a fervor. I nibbled on his bottom lip, and he groaned like a dying man. _How long has it been since this man has been properly kissed?_ I wondered with the small part of my brain that could still process language. _Has he ever?_ I slipped my tongue into his mouth and grazed his palate. His hands slid up to cradle my head as he caressed my tongue with his, not warring as most men do, but reverently. My heart raced, and I moaned and shivered against him as if the kiss was my first. Somehow it didn't matter that I'd kissed a thousand men; this was _our_ first, and the kiss I would measure all others against.

How long we were there, kissing in the snowy hospital parking lot, I didn't know. But finally, in unspoken agreement, we pulled apart. He looked at me with glazed eyes and smiled, and like magic, he was transformed into a creature of beauty. I smiled back at him, basking in the island of warmth we'd created.

“Happy Christmas,” we both said in concert. And it was.

**Author's Note:**

> *Spoiler Alert: He will.  
> **Of course she will, it's fanfic!
> 
> Will they or won't they? I leave it to your imagination! (But it's very likely. ;))


End file.
